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a terrible horror movie from the mid-Eighties that was, for some reason, rated R here in my neck of the woods. (It's the equivalent of a PG, I think - no nudity, little swearing or violence.) But my friends and I, knowing only that it was a horror movie and thus we had to see it, devised a plan to get in. We trimmed hair from each others' heads and used spirit gum to form moustaches on our pubescent faces.
Well, since I was the mastermind and the holder of the spirit gum, I did most of the moustache-crafting, and by the time my turn came around, it was time to go to the movie. No moustache for me.
Waiting in line behind my two moustachioed friends was a strangely pleasurable exercise in suspense. The first one got in past the legendarily strict ticket-matron guarding the gate. That was to be expected; he was a hormone case who could have - and did - buy beer at age thirteen. Then the second: a true test, as he was young for his age. But the moustache got him through. The pleasure I felt watching my brainstorm and hirsute craftsmanship game the system - an unfair system rigged to prevent young horror geeks from seeing movies they should have every right to see - was sublime. Now it was my turn.
No moustache. No tickee. No watchee. Back home I went as my hair-lipped pals settled in to watch 90 minutes of mediocre terror-lite. I had to wait several months before I could be bored and disappointed on video.
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